UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


THE  SPIRES  OF  OXFORD 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE  SPIRES  OF 
OXFORD 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 

W.  M.  LETTS 

ATJTHOB  or  "SONGS  FROM  LEINSTEB,"  "A  ROUGH  WAT, 
"DIAHA  DETHBOSED,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

E.  P.  BUTTON  AND  COMPANY 

681    FIFTH    AVENUE 
1918 


COPYRIGHT,  1817, 
BT  E.  P.  BUTTON  &  CO 


Pint  printing Augvtt,  1017 

Seeond  printing f*matl,  191* 


printed  <«  the  drifted  States  of  Hmerfca 


6,0: 


PUBLISHERS'  NOTE 

The  majority  of  the  Poems  in  this  volume  were 
published  by  us  in  1916  under  the  title  Hallow-e'en 
and  Poems  of  the  War. 

The  verdict  of  the  public,  as  shown  by  continual 
requests  for  permission  to  republish,  is  that  The  Spires 
of  Oxford  is  the  most  important  poem  hi  the  volume 
— and  therefore  in  issuing  a  new  edition  with  several 
new  poems,  we  bow  to  this  verdict  and  give  The 
Spires  of  Oxford  its  place  in  the  forefront  of  the 
volume. 

THE  PUBLISHERS 


402G44 


Certain  of  these  poems  have  already 
appeared  in  the  Spectator,  Westminster 
Gazette,  Pall  Mall  Gazette,  Observer, 
Dublin  Review,  and  The  Month. 


To  you  who  see 
The  world  with  me 
I  give  this  book. 

If  you  in  courtesy  should  look 
With  favour  on  its  pages  claim 
The  title  deed  and  write  your  name 
Here  on  this  page.    To  you  who  know 
The  glamour  of  the  passing  show, 
Sublime  and  sordid,  trivial,  great, 
But  life, — this  book  I  dedicate. 
As  casual  lookers-on  we  meet 
Here  at  some  corner  of  the  street. 
It's  good  to  know  you  see  it  too, 
Smile,  sigh  and  wonder  when  I  do; 
That  you  discern  the  crooked  jest 
Of  contrast  'twixt  our  worst  and  best, 
Humour  is  ever  friendship's  test. 
I  like  to  know  you  hear  the  catt 
Of  all  things  sad,  neglected,  small; 
Thritt  to  the  magic  of  the  wind, 
Love  country,  town  and  your  own  kind, 
Sinners  and  saints  and  sea  and  sky 
Just  as  they  are,  for  so  do  I. 

Then  let  this  book 
I  fain  would  mend 
Be  yours,  my  friend. 


CONTENTS 

POEMS  OF  THE  WAR 

MM 

THE  SPIHES  OF  OXFORD 3 

HALLOW-E'EN,  1915 5 

HALLOW-E'EN,  1914 7 

THE  CALL  TO  ARMS  IN  OUR  STREET 9 

CHAPLAIN  TO  THE  FORCES 11 

CASUALTY 13 

PRO  PATHIA 15 

GOLDEN  BOYS 16 

IN  THE  MAKING 17 

EPIPHANY,  1916 19 

SCREENS 21 

WHAT  REWARD? 23 

To  A  SOLDIER  IN  HOSPITAL 24 

JULY,  1916 27 

HE  PRAYED 29 

THE  DESERTER 30 

A  SISTER  IN  A  MILITARY  HOSPITAL 32 

AD  MORTUUM 

DEAD 35 

YOUR  NAME 36 

HEART'S  DESIRE 37 

Loss ' 38 

iz 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  DREAM 39 

IN  MEMORY 40 

IF  LOVE  OF  MINK 41 

ALIVE 42 

IN  ALL  LOVELINESS 43 

IN  TOWN 44 

SPRING  THE  CHEAT 45 

THE  MAGIC  CITY 46 

THE  GHOST 47 

THE  TRUCE 48 

MISCELLANEA 

ROSA  MYSTICA 51 

THE  WINDS  AT  BETHLEHEM 53 

OFFERING 55 

SONIA'B  SONG 56 

THE  WISH 58 

HOME 60 

THE  WIND'S  CALL 64 

ELAINE  AT  ASTOLAT 66 

THE  PAGE'S  SONG  OF  THE  HAPPT  LADY 67 

FAERIES 69 

To  TIM 71 

A  DOG'S  GRAVE 73 

To  SCOTT 74 

THE  MONKEY'S  CAROL 75 

PENSIONERS 77 

LOOKERS-ON 79 

FRIENDS 80 

ANGELIC  SERVICE 82 

OUR  LADY  OF  THE  LUPINS 84 

THE  DOCTOR 86 

SAILS 101 

THE  REBEL 103 

AEROPLANES  AND  DRAGONFLIES 104 

THE  T»Tti 105 

z 


POEMS    OF   THE   WAR 


THE  SPIRES  OF  OXFORD 

(SEEN  FROM  A  TRAIN) 

I  SAW  the  spires  of  Oxford 

As  I  was  passing  by, 
The  grey  spires  of  Oxford 

Against  a  pearl-grey  sky ; 
My  heart  was  with  the  Oxford  men 

Who  went  abroad  to  die. 

The  years  go  fast  in  Oxford, 
The  golden  years  and  gay; 

The  hoary  colleges  look  down 
On  careless  boys  at  play, 

But  when  the  bugles  sounded — War! 
They  put  their  games  away. 

They  left  the  peaceful  river, 
The  cricket  field,  the  quad, 

The  shaven  lawns  of  Oxford 
To  seek  a  bloody  sod. 

They  gave  their  merry  youth  away 
For  country  and  for  God. 
3 


THE  SPIRES  OF  OXFORD 

God  rest  you,  happy  gentlemen, 
Who  laid  your  good  lives  down, 

Who  took  the  khaki  and  the  gun 
Instead  of  cap  and  gown. 

God  bring  you  to  a  fairer  place 
Than  even  Oxford  town. 


HALLOW-E'EN,  1915 

WILL  you  come  back  to  us,  men  of  our  hearts,  to- 
night 

In  the  misty  close  of  the  brief  October  day? 

Will  you  leave  the  alien  graves  where  you  sleep 
and  steal  away 

To  see  the  gables  and  eaves  of  home  grow  dark  in 
the  evening  light  ? 

"O  men  of  the  manor  and  moated  hall  and  farm, 
Come    back    to-night,    treading   softly    over    the 

grass ; 
The  dew  of  the  autumn  dusk  will  not  betray  where 

you  pass; 
The  watchful  dog  may  stir  in  his  sleep  but  he'll 

raise  no  hoarse  alarm. 

Then  you  will  stand,  not  strangers,  but  wishful  to 

look 

At  the  kindly  lamplight  shed  from  the  open  door, 
5 


HALLOW-E'EN,  1915 

And  the  fire-lit  casement  where  one,  having  wept 

you  sore, 
Sits  dreaming  alone  with  her  sorrow,  not  heeding 

her  open  book. 

Forgotten  awhile  the  weary  trenches,  the  dome 

Of  pitiless  Eastern  sky,  in  this  quiet  hour 

When  no  sound  breaks  the  hush  but  the  chimes 

from  the  old  church  tower, 
And  the  river's  song  at  the  weir, — ah !  then  we  will 

welcome  you  home. 

You  will  come  back  to  us  just  as  the  robin  sings 
Nunc  Dimittis  from  the  larch  to  a  sun  late  set 
In  purple  woodlands ;  when  caught  like  silver  fish 

in  a  net 
The  stars  gleam  out  through  the  orchard  boughs 

and  the  church  owl  flaps  his  wings. 

We  have  no  fear  of  you,  silent  shadows,  who  tread 
The  leaf-bestrewn  paths,  the  dew-wet  lawns.  Draw 

near 
To  the  glowing  fire,  the  empty  chair, — we  shall  not 

fear, 
Being  but  ghosts  for  the  lack  of  you,  ghosts  of  our 

well-beloved  dead. 

6 


HALLOW-E'EN,  1914 

"WHY  do  you  wait  at  your  door,  woman, 

Alone  in  the  night?" 
"I  am  waiting  for  one  who  will  come,  stranger, 

To  show  him  a  light. 
He  will  see  me  afar  on  the  road 

And  be  glad  at  the  sight." 

"Have  you  no  fear  in  your  heart,  woman, 

To  stand  there  alone? 
There  is  comfort  for  you  and  kindly  content 

Beside  the  hearthstone." 
But  she  answered,  "No  rest  can  I  have 

Till  I  welcome  my  own." 

"Is  it  far  he  must  travel  to-night, 

This  man  of  your  heart?" 
"Strange  lands  that  I  know  not  and  pitiless  seas 

Have  kept  us  apart, 
And  he  travels  this  night  to  his  home 

Without  guide,  without  chart." 
7 


HALLOW-E'EN,  1914 

"And  has  he  companions  to  cheer  him?" 

"Aye,  many,"  she  said. 

"The  candles  are  lighted,  the  hearthstones  are 
swept, 

The  fires  glow  red. 
We  shall  welcome  them  out  of  the  night — 

Our  home-coming  dead." 


THE  CALL  TO  ARMS  IN  OUR 
STREET 

THERE'S  a  woman  sobs  her  heart  out, 

With  her  head  against  the  door, 
For  the  man  that's  called  to  leave  her, 
— God  have  pity  on  the  poor ! 
But  it's  beat,  drums,  beat, 
While  the  lads  march  down  the  street, 
And  it's  blow,  trumpets,  blow, 
Keep  your  tears  until  they  go. 

There's  a  crowd  of  little  children 

Who  march  along  and  shout, 
For  it's  fine  to  play  at  soldiers 
Now  their  fathers  are  called  out. 
So  it's  beat,  drums,  beat; 
But  who'll  find  them  food  to  eat? 
And  it's  blow,  trumpets,  blow, 
Ah!  the  children  little  know. 
9 


THE  CALL  TO  ARMS  IN  OUR  STREET 

There's  a  mother  who  stands  watching 

For  the  last  look  of  her  son, 
A  worn  poor  widow  woman 
And  he  her  only  one. 

But  it's  beat,  drums,  beat, 

Though  God  knows  when  we  shall  meet ; 

And  it's  blow,  trumpets,  blow: 

We  must  smile  and  cheer  them  so. 

There's  a  young  girl  who  stands  laughing, 

For  she  thinks  a  war  is  grand, 
And  it's  fine  to  see  the  lads  pass, 
And  it's  fine  to  hear  the  band. 
So  it's  beat,  drums,  beat, 
To  the  fall  of  many  feet; 
And  it's  blow,  trumpets,  blow, 
God  go  with  you  where  you  go 
To  the  war. 


10 


CHAPLAIN  TO  THE  FORCES 

AMBASSADOR  of  Christ  you  go 
Up  to  the  very  gates  of  hell, 
Through  fog  of  powder,  storm  of  shell, 

To  speak  your  Master's  message:  "Lo, 
The  Prince  of  Peace  is  with  you  still, 
His  peace  be  with  you,  His  goodwill." 

It  is  not  small,  your  priesthood's  price, 
To  be  a  man  and  yet  stand  by, 
To  hold  your  life  whilst  others  die, 

To  bless,  not  share  the  sacrifice, 

To  watch  the  strife  and  take  no  part — 
You  with  the  fire  at  your  heart. 

But  yours,  for  our  great  Captain  Christ 

To  know  the  sweat  of  agony, 

The  darkness  of  Gethsemane 
In  anguish  for  these  souls  unpriced. 

Vicegerent  of  God's  pity  you, 

rA  sword  must  pierce  your  own  soul  through. 
11 


CHAPLAIN  TO  TEE  FORCES 

In  the  pale  gleam  of  new-born  day 
Apart  in  some  tree-shadowed  place, 
Your  altar  but  a  packing  case, 

Rude  as  the  shed  where  Mary  lay, 
Your  sanctuary  the  rain-drenched  sod 
You  bring  the  kneeling  soldier,  God. 

As  sentinel  you  guard  the  gate 

'Twixt  life  and  death,  and  unto  death 
Speed  the  brave  soul  whose  failing  breath 

Shudders  not  at  the  grip  of  Fate, 
But  answers,  gallant  to  the  end, 
"Christ  is  the  Word — and  I  His  friend." 

Then  God  go  with  you,  priest  of  God, 
For  all  is  well  and  shall  be  well. 
What  though  you  tread  the  roads  of  hell? 

With  nail-pierced  feet  these  ways  He  trod. 
Above  the  anguish  and  the  loss 
Still  floats  the  ensign  of  His  Cross. 


19 


CASUALTY 

JOHN  DELANEY  of  the  Rifles  has  been  shot. 

A  man  we  never  knew, 

Does  it  cloud  the  day  for  you 

That  he  lies  among  the  dead 
Moving,  hearing,  heeding  not? 

No  history  will  hold  his  humble  name. 

No  sculptured  stone  will  tell 

The  traveller  where  he  fell ; 

That  he  lies  among  the  dead 
Is  the  measure  of  his  fame. 

When  our  troops  return  victorious  shall  we  care 

That  deaf  to  all  the  cheers, 

Lacking  tribute  of  our  tears, 

He  is  lying  with  the  dead 
Stark  and  silent,  God  knows  where? 

13 


CASUALTY 

John  Delaney  of  the  Rifles — who  was  he? 
A  name  seen  on  a  list 
All  unknown  and  all  unmissed. 
What  to  us  that  he  is  dead? — 

Yet  he  died  for  you  and  me. 


14 


PRO  PATRIA 

IN  bowler  hats,  top  coats, 

With  woollen  mufflers  round  their  throats, 

They  played  at  war, 
These  men  I  watched  to-day. 
Weary  with  office  work,  pinched-faced,  depressed, 
About  the  field  they  marched  and  counter-marched, 
Halting  and  marking  time  and  all  the  rest — 
Meanwhile  the  world  went  on  its  way 
To  see  the  football  heroes  play. 

No  music,  no  applause, 

No  splendour  for  them  but  a  Cause 

Hid  deep  at  heart. 
They  drilled  there  soberly, 
Their  one  half-holiday — the  various  show 
Of  theatres  all  resisted,  home  renounced; 
The  Picture  Palace  with  its  kindly  glow 
Forgotten  now,  that  they  may  be 
Worthy  of  England's  chivalry. 

15 


GOLDEN  BOYS 

NOT  harps  and  palms  for  these,  O  God, 

Nor  endless  rest  within  the  courts  of  Heaven, — 

These  happy  boys  who  left  the  football  field, 

The  hockey  ground,  the  river,  the  eleven, 

In  a  far  grimmer  game,  with  high  elated  souls 

To  score  their  goals. 

Let  these,  O  God,  still  test  their  manhood's 

strength, 

Wrestle  and  leap  and  run, 
Feel  sea  and  wind  and  sun; 
With  Cherubim  contend; 
The  timeless  morning  spend 
In  great  celestial  games. 
Let  there  be  laughter  and  a  merry  noise 
Now  that  the  fields  of  Heaven  shine 
With  all  these  golden  boys. 


16 


IN  THE  MAKING 

"And  of  all  knights — I  out-take  none,  say  what  men  will 
say — he  beareth  the  flower  of  all  chivalry." — MALORY. 

GOD  took  fine  clay  and  made  a  man 

As  brave  and  true,  as  clean  and  straight 

As  any  since  the  world  began, 

And  men  were  first  at  odds  with  fate. 

His  was  the  knighthood  of  a  soul 

Whose  faith  and  honour  cannot  fail. 

The  Far-off  City  was  his  goal, 
His  quest  the  vision  of  Sancgreal. 

Born  of  the  race  that  sailed  the  sea 

With  Hawke  and  Frobisher  and  Drake, 

He  too  could  face  death  merrily 
And  risk  his  all  and  never  quake. 

Fearless  and  gentle,  steel  and  fire, 
Son  of  an  order  passing  hence. 

He  rode  like  any  old-time  squire, 

Rode  straight  and  never  shirked  a  fence. 
17 


IN  THE  MAKING! 

What  did  he  lack,  what  one  thing  more? 

They  could  not  tell  who  loved  him  best. 
Only  they  saw  God  try  him  sore 

And  put  his  valour  to  the  test. 

From  death  upon  the  battlefield 

He  had  not  shrunk  nor  turned  away. 

But  stauncher  still  he  would  not  yield 
To  the  long  siege  of  every  day. 

He  would  not  wince  nor  show  the  pain 

Of  that  slow  ordeal  by  fire. 
He  set  his  face  and  laughed  again 

Before  his  shattered  heart's  desire. 

So  God  approved  the  deep-laid  plan 
We,  blind-eyed,  had  not  understood. 

God  said  "Behold,  a  gentleman," 

And  smiled  and  saw  His  work  was  good. 


18 


EPIPHANY,  1916 

THE  Kings  still  come  to  Bethlehem 
Though  nineteen  centuries  have  fled; 

The  Kings  still  come  to  Bethlehem 
To  worship  at  a  Baby's  bed. 

And  still  a  star  shines  in  the  East, 

For  sage  and  soldier,  king  and  priest. 

They  come  not  as  they  came  of  old 
On  lordly  camels  richly  dight; 

They  come  not  bearing  myrrh  and  gold 
And  jewels  for  a  king's  delight. 

All  battle-stained  and  grim  are  they 

Who  seek  the  Prince  of  Peace  to-day. 

They  bring  not  pearls  nor  frankincense 
To  offer  Him  for  His  content. 

Weary  and  worn  with  long  suspense 

With  kingdoms  ravished,  fortunes  spent, 

They  have  no  gifts  to  bring  but  these — 

Men's  blood  and  women's  agonies. 
19 


EPIPHANY,  1916 

What  toys  have  they  to  please  a  child? 

Cannon  and  gun  and  bayonet. 
What  gold  ?    Their  honour  undefiled. 

What  myrrh  ?    Sad  hearts  and  long  regret. 
For  they  have  found  through  bitter  loss 
That  Kings  are  throned  upon  the  Cross. 

The  Kings  still  come  to  Bethlehem 

With  broken  hearts  and  souls  sore-vexed. 

And  still  the  star  is  guiding  them 

Through  weary  nights  and  days  perplexed. 

God  greet  you,  Kings,  that  you  may  be 

New-crowned  at  His  Epiphany. 


SCREENS 

(IN  A  HOSPITAL) 

THEY  put  the  screens  around  his  bed; 

A  crumpled  heap  I  saw  him  lie, 
White  counterpane  and  rough  dark  head, 

Those  screens — they  showed  that  he  would  die. 

They  put  the  screens  about  his  bed ; 

We  might  not  play  the  gramophone, 
And  so  we  played  at  cards  instead 

And  left  him  dying  there  alone. 

The  covers  on  the  screen  are  red, 

The  counterpanes  are  white  and  clean; — 

He  might  have  lived  and  loved  and  wed 
But  now  he's  done  for  at  nineteen. 

An  ounce  or  more  of  Turkish  lead, 

He  got  his  wounds  at  Suvla  Bay; 
They've  brought  the  Union  Jack  to  spread 

Upon  him  when  he  goes  away. 
91 


SCREENS 

He'll  want  those  three  red  screens  no  more. 

Another  man  will  get  his  bed, 
We'll  make  the  row  we  did  before 

But — Jove! — I'm  sorry  that  he's  dead. 


WHAT  REWARD? 

You  gave  your  life,  boy, 

And  you  gave  a  limb: 
But  he  who  gave  his  precious  wits, 

Say,   what   reward   for  him? 

One  has  his  glory, 

One  has  found  his  rest. 
But  what  of  this  poor  babbler  here 

With  chin  sunk  on  his  breast? 

Flotsam  of  battle, 

With  brain  bemused  and  dim, 
O  God,  for  such  a  sacrifice 

Say,  what  reward  for  him? 


TO  A  SOLDIER  IN  HOSPITAL 

(A.  W.) 

COURAGE  came  to  you  with  your  boyhood's  grace 

Of  ardent  life  and  limb. 
Each  day  new  dangers  steeled  you  to  the  test, 

To  ride,  to  climb,  to  swim. 

Your  hot  blood  taught  you  carelessness  of  death 
With  every  breath. 

So  when  you  went  to  play  another  game 

You  could  not  but  be  brave: 
An  Empire's  team,  a  rougher  football  field, 

The  end — who  knew? — your  grave. 
What  matter?     On  the  winning  of  a  goal 
You  staked  your  soul. 

Yes,  you  wore  courage  as  you  wore  your  youth, 

With  carelessness  and  joy. 
But  in  what  Spartan  school  of  discipline 

Did  you  get  patience,  boy? 

How  did  you  learn  to  bear  this  long-drawn  pain 
And  not  complain? 


TO  A  SOLDIER  IN  HOSPITAL 

Restless  with  throbbing  hopes,  with  thwarted  aims, 

Impulsive  as  a  colt, 
How  do  you  lie  here  month  by  weary  month, 

Helpless  and  not  revolt? 
What  joy  can  these  monotonous  days  afford 
Here  in  a  ward? 

Yet  you  are  merry  as  the  spring-time  birds 

Or  feign  the  gaiety 

Lest  those  who  dress  and  tend  your  wound  each 
day 

Should  guess  the  agony, 
Lest  they  should  suffer — this  the  only  fear 
You  let  draw  near. 

Greybeard  philosophy  has  sought  in  books 

And  argument  this  truth, — 
That  man  is  greater  than  his  pain,  but  you 

Have  learnt  it  in  your  youth. 
You  know  the  wisdom  taught  by  Calvary 
At  twenty-three. 

Death  would  have  found  you  brave,  but  braver 

still 
You  face  each  weary  day, 

25 


TO  A  SOLDIER  IN  HOSPITAL 

A  merry  Stoic,  patient,  chivalrous, 

Divinely  kind  and  gay. 

You  bear  your  knowledge  lightly,  graduate 
Of  unkind  Fate. 

Careless  philosopher,  the  first  to  laugh, 

The  latest  to  complain; 
Unmindful  that  you  teach,  you  taught  me  this 

In  your  long  fight  with  pain ; 
Since  God  made  man  so  good, — here  stands  my 

creed, 
— God's  good  indeed. 


JULY,  1916 

HERE  in  happy  England  the  fields  are  steeped  in 

quiet, 

Saving  for  larks'  song  and  drone  of  bumble  bees ; 
The  deep  lanes  are  decked  with  roses  all  a-riot, 

With  bryony  and  vetch  and  ferny  tapestries. 
O  here  a  maid  would  linger  to  hear  the  blackbird 

fluting, 
And  here  a  lad  might  pause  by  wind-berippled 

wheat, 
The  lovers  in  the  bat's  light  would  hear  the  brown 

owl  hooting, 

Before  the  latticed  lights  of  home  recalled  their 
lagging  feet. 

•  ••*•• 

But  over  there,  in  France,  the  grass  is  torn  and 

trodden, 
Our  pastures  grow  moon  daisies,  but  theirs  are 

strewn  with  lead. 

The  fertile,  kindly  fields  are  harassed  and  blood- 
sodden, 

The  sheaves  they  bear  for  harvesting  will  be  our 
garnered  dead. 

91 


JULY,  1916 

But  there  the  lads  of  England,  in  peril  of  ad- 
vancing, 
Have  laid  their  splendid  lives  down,  ungrudging 

of  the  cost; 

The  record — just  their  names  here — means  a  mo- 
ment's careless  glancing, 

But  who  can  tell  the  promise,  the  fulfilment  of 
our  lost? 

•  •  •  •  •  .#. 

Here  in  happy  England  the  Summer  pours  her 

treasure 

Of  grasses,  of  flowers  before  our  heedless  feet. 
The   swallow-haunted   streams  meander   at  their 

pleasure 
Through   loosestrife   and   rushes    and    plumed 

meadow-sweet. 
Yet  how  shall  we  forget  them,  the  young  men,  the 

splendid, 
Who  left  this   golden  heritage,  who  put  the 

Summer  by, 

Who  kept  for  us  our  England  inviolate,  defended, 
But  by  their  passing  made  for  us  December  of 
July? 


HE  PRAYED 

HE  prayed, 

There  where  he  lay, 

Blood-sodden   and  unkempt, 

As  never  in  his  young,  gay  carelessness  he'd  dreamt 

That  he  could  pray. 

He  prayed; 

Not  that  the  pain  should  cease, 

Nor  yet  for  water  in  the  parching  heat, 

Nor  for  death's  quick  release, 

Nor  even  for  the  tardy  feet 

Of  stretcher-bearers  bringing  aid. 

He  prayed; 

Cast  helpless  on  the  bloody  sod : 

"Don't  trouble  now,  O  God,  for  me, 

But  keep  the  boys.    Go  forward  with  them,  God ! 

O  speed  the  Camerons  to  victory." 

The  kilts  flashed  on:    "Well  played,"  he  sighed, 

"well  played." 
Just  so  he  prayed. 

39 


THE  DESERTER 

THERE  was  a  man, — don't  mind  his  name, 
Whom  Fear  had  dogged  by  night  and  day. 
He  could  not  face  the  German  guns 
And  so  he  turned  and  ran  away. 
Just  that — he  turned  and  ran  away, 
But  who  can  judge  him,  you  or  I? 
God  makes  a  man  of  flesh  and  blood 
Who  yearns  to  live  and  not  to  die. 
And  this  man  when  he  feared  to  die 
Was  scared  as  any  frightened  child, 
His  knees  were  shaking  under  him, 
His  breath  came  fast,  his  eyes  were  wild. 
I've  seen  a  hare  with  eyes  as  wild, 
With  throbbing  heart  and  sobbing  breath. 
But  oh !  it  shames  one's  soul  to  see 
A  man  in  abject  fear  of  death. 
But  fear  had  gripped  him,  so  had  death ; 
His  number  had  gone  up  that  day, 
They  might  not  heed  his  frightened  eyes, 
They  shot  him  when  the  dawn  was  grey. 
30 


THE  DESERTER 

Blindfolded,  when  the  dawn  was  grey, 
He  stood  there  in  a  place  apart, 
The  shots  rang  out  and  down  he  fell, 
An  English  bullet  in  his  heart. 
An  English  bullet  in  his  heart! 
But  here's  the  irony  of  life, — 
His  mother  thinks  he  fought  and  fell 
A  hero,  foremost  in  the  strife. 
So  she  goes  proudly;  to  the  strife 
Her  best,  her  hero  son  she  gave. 
O  well  for  her  she  does  not  know 
He  lies  in  a  deserter's  grave. 


SI 


A  SISTER  IN  A  MILITARY 
HOSPITAL 

BLUE  dress,  blue  tippet,  trimmed  with  red, 
White  veil,  coif-like  about  her  head. 
Starched  apron,  cuffs,  and  cool,  kind  hands, 
Trained  servants  to  her  quick  commands. 
Swift  feet  that  lag  not  to  obey 
In  diligent  service  day  by  day. 

A  face  that  would  have  brought  delight 
To  some  pure-souled  pre-Raphaelite ; 
Madonna  of  a  moment,  caught 
Unwary  in  the  toils  of  thought, 
Stilled  in  her  tireless  energy, 
Dark-eyed  and  hushed  with  sympathy. 

Warm,  eager  as  the  south-west  wind, 
Straight  as  a  larch  and  gaily  kind 
As  pinewood  fires  on  winter  eves, 
Wholesome  and  young  as  April  leaves, 
Four  seasons  blent  in  rare  accord 
— You  have  the  Sister  of  our  ward. 
32 


AD  MORTUUM 


For  England's  sake  men  give  their  lives 

And  we  cry  "Brave" 

But  braver  yet 

The  hearts  that  break  and  live 

Having  no  more  to  give, 

Mothers,  sweethearts  and  wives. 

Let  none  forget 

Or  with  averted  head 

Pass  this  great  sorrow  by — 

These  would  how  thankfully  be  dead 

Yet  may  not  die. 


34 


DEAD 

IN  misty  cerements  they  wrapped  the  word 

My  heart  had  feared  so  long:  dead  .  .  .  dead  .  .  . 

I  heard 

But  marvelled  they  could  think  the  thing  was  true 
Because  death  cannot  be  for  such  as  you. 
So  while  they  spoke  kind  words  to  suit  my  need 
Of  foolish  idle  things  my  heart  took  heed, 
Your  racquet  and  a  worn-out  tennis  shoe, 
Your  pipe  upon  the  mantel, — then  a  bird 
Upon  the  wind-tossed  larch  began  to  sing 
And  I  remembered  how  one  day  in  Spring 
You  found  the  wren's  nest  in  the  wall  and  said 
"Hush!  .  .  .  listen!  I  can  hear  them  quarrel- 

ling  .  .  .» 

The  tennis  court  is  marked,  the  wrens  are  fled, 
But  you  are  dead,  beloved,  you  are  dead. 


YOUR  NAME 

WHEN  I  can  dare  at  last  to  speak  your  name 

It  shall  not  be  with  hushed  and  reverent  speech 

As  if  your  spirit  were  beyond  the  reach 

Of  homely  merry  things,  kind  jest  or  game. 

Death  shall  not  hide  you  in  some  jewelled  shrine 

Nor  set  you  in  marmoreal  pomp  apart, 

You  who  still  share  the  ingle  of  my  heart, 

Participant  in  every  thought  of  mine. 

Your  name,  when  I  can  dare  to  speak  it,  dear, 

Shall  still  be  linked  with  laughter  and  with  joy. 

No  solemn  panegyrist  shall  destroy 

My  image  of  you,  gay,  familiar 

As  in  old  happy  days, — lest  I  discover 

Too  late  I've  won  a  saint  but  lost  a  lover. 


HEART'S    DESIRE 

My  heart's  desire  was  like  a  garden  seen 
On  sudden  through  the  opening  of  a  door 
In  the  grey  street  of  life,  unguessed  before 
But  now  how  magic  in  sun-smitten  green: 
Wide  cedar-shaded  lawns,  the  glow  and  sheen 
Of  borders  decked  with  all  a  gardener's  lore, 
Long  shaven  hedges  of  old  yew,  hung  o'er 
With  gossamer,  wide  paths  to  please  a  queen, 
Whose  happy  silken  skirts  would  brush  the  dew 
From  peonies  and  lupins  white  and  blue. 
Enchanted,  there  I  lingered  for  a  space, 
Forgetful  of  the  street,  of  tasks  to  do. 
But  when  I  would  have  entered  that  sweet  place 
The  wind  rose  and  the  door  slammed  in  my  face. 


37 


402G44 


LOSS 

IN  losing  you  I  lost  my  sun  and  moon 
And  all  the  stars  that  blessed  my  lonely  night. 
I  lost  the  hope  of  Spring,  the  joy  of  June, 
The  Autumn's  peace,  the  Winter's  firelight. 
I  lost  the  zest  of  living,  the  sweet  sense 
Expectant  of  your  step,  your  smile,  your  kiss ; 
I  lost  all  hope  and  fear  and  keen  suspense 
For  this  cold  calm,  sans  agony,  sans  bliss. 
I  lost  the  rainbow's  gold,  the  silver  key 
That  gave  me  freedom  of  my  town  of  dreams ; 
I  lost  the  path  that  leads  to  Faerie 
By  beechen  glades  and  heron-haunted  streams. 
I  lost  the  master  word,  dear  love,  the  clue 
That  threads  the  maze  of  life  when  I  lost  you. 


38 


THE  DREAM 

I  DREAMT — before  death  made  such  dreaming 

vain — 

That  sometime,  on  a  day  of  wind  and  rain, 
I  would  come  home  to  you  at  fall  of  night 
And  see  your  window  flushed  with  firelight. 
There  in  the  chill  dark  lonesomeness  I'd  wait 
A  moment,  standing  at  the  garden  gate 
Scarce  trusting  that  my  happiness  was  true, — 
The  kind,  warm  lights  of  home  and  love  and  you. 

Then,  lest  they'd  vanish  to  be  mine  no  more, 
I'd  speed  my  steps  along  the  garden  path, 
Cross  my  own  threshold,  close  the  wind-blown  door 
And  find  you  in  the  firelight  of  the  hearth. 
O  happiness!  to  kneel  beside  you  there 
And  feel  your  fingers  resting  on  my  hair. 


WOULD  God  that  I  might  build  my  lovt  in  stone 
That  would  out-time  the  centuries  and  dare 
Despiteful  death  to  lay  his  finger  there, 
So  that  your  fame  to  all  men  might  be  known ; 
A  minster  church,  crowned  with  a  soaring  spire, 
Great  buttressed  walls,  clerestory,  lofty  nave 
Deep  carven  doors  and  every  window  brave 
With  sunset  hues.     In  chantry,  transept,  choir, 
So  great  a  peace  men  needs  must  kneel  to  pray. 
Then  I  would  have  them,  each  to  other  say, 
"One  loved  her  true  love  well  and  worthily 
And  built  this  minster  to  his  memory, 
God  rest  their  souls" — so   all   should  know   the 

story, 
Your  fame,  beloved,  and  God's  greater  glory. 


40 


IF  LOVE  OF  MINE 

IF  love  of  mine  could  witch  you  back  to  earth 

It  would  be  when  the  bat  is  on  the  wing, 

The  lawn  dew-drenched,  the  first  stars  glimmering, 

The  moon  a  golden  slip  of  seven  nights'  birth. 

If  prayer  of  mine  could  bring  you  it  would  be 

To  this  wraith-flowered,  jasmine-scented  place 

Where  shadow  trees  their  branches  interlace; 

Phantoms  we'd  tread  a  land  of  fantasy. 

If  love  could  hold  you  I  would  bid  you  wait 

Till  the  pearl  sky  is  indigo  and  till 

The  plough  shows  silver  lamps  beyond  the  hill 

And  Hesperus  holds  his  torch  above  the  gate. 

If  love  of  mine  could  lure  you  back  to  me 

From  the  rose  gardens  of  eternity. 


41 


ALIVE 

BECAUSE  you  live,  though  out  of  sight  and  reach, 

I  will,  so  help  me  God,  live  bravely  too, 

Taking  the  road  with  laughter  and  gay  speech, 

Alert,  intent  to  give  life  all  its  due. 

I  will  delight  my  soul  with  many  things, 

The  humours  of  the  street  and  books  and  plays, 

Great  rocks  and  waves  winnowed  by  seagulls' 

wings, 

Star-jewelled  Winter  nights,  gold  harvest  days. 
I  will  for  your  sake  praise  what  I  have  missed, 
The  sweet  content  of  long-united  lives, 
The  sunrise  joy  of  lovers  who  have  kissed, 
Children  with  flower-faces,  happy  wives. 
And  last  I  will  praise  Death  who  gives  anew 
Brave  life  adventurous  and  love — and  you. 


IN  ALL  LOVELINESS 

I  LOVE  you  in  all  loveliness,  sweetheart. 
Skies,  stars  and  flowers  speak  of  you  to  me 
And  every  season  is  your  emissary 
Lest  I  forget  you  now  we  are  apart. 
The  tracery  of  leafless  trees  inset 
Upon  a  saffron  sky:  warm  nights  in  June 
When  corncrakes  shout  beneath  a  full  low  moon; 
September  mornings  in  a  world  dew-wet; 
Dim  harvest  fields  at  dusk :  tree-shadowed  lawns, 
A  garden  sweet  with  lavender  and  stocks; 
Pale  flowers  by  twilight,  jessamine  and  phlox; 
The  ring-doves'  soft  complaint  in  summer  dawns ; 
The  scent  of  cowslips,  violets  white  and  blue — 
These  are  the  embassies  that  speak  of  you! 


43 


IN  TOWN 

I  LOVE  you  in  the  vehement  life  of  town, 
The  pulsing  high-ways,  the  gay  market  places: 
The  masque  of  various  players,  king  and  clown, 
Philosopher  and  fool :  the  passing  faces ; 
The  sense  of  brotherhood  with  all  I  meet. 
I  love  you  in  the  wonder  of  night's  falling, 
The  blossoming  of  lights  in  every  street, 
The  pearl-shell  sky,  pale  river,  voices  calling 
The  news  of  town :  the  homeward-pressing  throng, 
The  gay  shop  windows  with  their  varied  treasure ; 
Street  melody,  a  snatch  of  careless  song, 
Lovers  arm-linked,  the  carnival  of  pleasure. 
O  ardent  soul,  my  friend,  the  town  is  dear 
Because  in  every  street  I  feel  you  near. 


44 


SPRING  THE  CHEAT 

THE  wych-elm  shakes  its  sequins  to  the  ground, 
With  every  wind  the  chestnut  blossoms  fall: 
Down  by  the  stream  the  willow-warblers  sing, 
And  in  the  garden  to  a  merry  sound 
The  mown  grass  flies.     The  fantail  pigeons  call 
And  sidle  on  the  roof;  a  murmuring 
Of  bees  about  the  woodbine-covered  wall, 
A  child's  sweet  chime  of  laughter — this  is  spring. 
Luminous  evenings  when  the  blackbird  sways 
Upon  the  rose  and  tunes  his  flageolet, 
A  sea  of  bluebells  down  the  woodland  ways, — 
O  exquisite  spring,  all  this — and  yet — and  yet — 
Kinder  to  me  the  bleak  face  of  December 
Who   gives   no   cheating  hopes,   but   says — "Re- 
member." 


THE  MAGIC  CITY 

I  HAD  not  known  you  skilled  in  wizardry 

Until  I  trod  the  pavements  at  your  side, 

When  sudden  at  your  "Open  Sesame" 

The  magic  city  flung  its  portals  wide. 

Against  a  sky  pale  as  a  chrysolite 

I  saw,  sharp  cut  in  shadow,  dome  and  spire, 

Belfry  and  gabled  roof,  bewitched  by  night, 

Spangled  with  flame — my  town  of  heart's  desire. 

I  left  it  thus  at  moonrise,  and  with  day 

Came  back  alone — ah!  folly!  but  to  find 

The   glamour  fled   from   street   and   square   and 

tower. 

Vanished  my  magic  city;  chill  and  grey 
This  drear  familiar  town,  with  face  unkind 
Giving  the  lie  to  that  enchanted  hour. 


THE  GHOST 

MY  lady,  musing  at  her  mirror,  said: 
"This  is  my  burial  night,  for  I  am  dead; 
Hope  dug  the  grave  and  laid  my  sad  heart  there, 
Sorrow  was  sexton,  heavy-footed  Care 
The  lanthorn-bearer,  Love  in  sober  stole 
Was  priest,  while  fickle  Joy  stayed  but  to  toll 
The  bell  for  me ;  then  Memory  graved  the  stone, 
And  all  being  done,  they  left  me  there  alone. 
But  though  the  grave  is  made,  the  earth  close- 
pressed 

About  my  heart,  to-morrow  I  must  rise, 
Put  on  my  gay  attire,  laugh  and  jest, 
Lest  one  should  read  the  secret  in  my  eyes — 
Lest  one  should  know  that  in  this  careless  host 
Of  revellers,  I  linger  as  a  ghost." 


THE  TRUCE 

ONE  made  this  prayer :  "O  Christ,  I  dearly  crave 
Some  little  lazy  peace  to  follow  death ; 
A  sunny  bank  where  tranquil  willows  wave 
Wind-silvered  leaves,  and  time  to  draw  my  breath 
Beside  a  stream  knee-deep  in  arrow-head 
And  dear  forget-me-nots,  a  gentle  spot 
Where  I  may  thank  my  God  that  I  am  dead 
i  And  all  the  traffic  of  the  world  forgot. 
There,  dreamless,  I  shall  lie  so  still — so  still, 
The  cautious  moorhen  piloting  her  brood 
Will  heed  me  not,  the  heron  stir  no  quill 
For  fear  of  me  in  that  kind  solitude. 
O  grant  this  truce  from  pain,  this  moment's  rest, 
Before  I  brace  my  soul  to  further  test." 


MISCELLANEA 


ROSA  MYSTICA 

OUE  Lady  is   the  mystic   rose  that  bloomed  in 

Nazareth 
Against  whose  blessed  heart  there  lay  the  Lord  of 

life  and  death. 

She  is  the  rose  without  a  thorn  that  grew  on 

Jesse's  stem, 
The  Rose  of  roses  on  her  breast  was  lulled  in 

Bethlehem. 

To  this  white  rose  at  God's  command  the  Angel 

Gabriel  came, 
With  promise  of  the  Blessed  One  and  message  of 

His  Name. 

Our  Lady  is  the  pale  pink  rose  in  whom  all  fra- 
grance lies, 

Her  summer  was  in  Jesus'  kiss,  her  sunshine  in 
His  eyes. 

61 


ROSA  MYSTICA 

She  is  the  golden-hearted  rose  that  held  our  per- 
fect joy; 

When  in  her  arms  against  her  heart  she  clasped 
her  heavenly  Boy. 

Our  Lady  is  the  red,  red  rose  upon  a  royai  tree, 
Deep  red  for  love  and  red  for  grief,  the  reddest 

rose  was  she 
Whose  soul  was  pierced  by  sorrow's   sword  on 

cross-crowned  Calvary. 


THE  WINDS  AT  BETHLEHEM 

WHEN  Jesus  lay  on  Mary's  knee 

There  was  no  wind  nor  breeze  that  stirred, 
For  Heaven  then  made  minstrelsy 

And  all  the  earth  in  silence  heard. 

There  was  no  wind  on  sea  or  land, 
No  boisterous  gale  blew  loud  and  wild, 

The  four  great  winds  came  hand  in  hand 
And  stood  about  the  Holy  Child. 

The  four  great  winds,  their  pinions  furled, 
Came  softly  in  with  humble  tread; 

They  saw  the  Maker  of  the  World 
Upon  His  lowly  manger  bed. 

The  South  wind  looked  with  radiant  eyes 
Upon  this  King  so  small  and  sweet; 

He  softly  sang  Him  lullabies 
And  knelt  adoring  at  His  feet. 
53 


THE  WINDS  AT  BETHLEHEM 

The  West  wind  like  a  shepherd  clad 

Had  brought  his  pastoral  pipes  to  play ; 

He  piped  his  music  wild  and  glad 
Until  the  shadows  fled  away. 

The  North  wind  bowed  and  knelt  him  down 

To  gaze  upon  this  sight  so  fair ; 
He  gave  the  Babe  the  frosty  crown 

That  lay  upon  his  tangled  hair. 

Before  that  shrine  the  East  wind  bent, 
He  had  strange  gifts  beyond  all  price, 

Of  gold  and  gems  of  Orient 

And  gums  and  frankincense  and  spice. 

There  was  no  wind  on  sea  or  land, 
But  round  about  the  manger  bed 

The  four  great  winds  stood  hand  in  hand 
And  worshipped  there  with  wings  outspread. 


OFFERING 

SHE  had  no  gift  to  bring  her  heart's  beloved, 
So  poor  she  was  and  sad, 

Having  no  store  laid  by  to  cheer  the  bleak  to- 
morrow, 

So  for  his  weal  she  offered  all  she  had — her  sorrow. 
Who  knows  but  God,  compassionate,  took  heed 
Accepting  this  her  treasure, 
And  on  her  heart's  beloved  one  in  his  need 
Spent  it  in  fullest  measure. 


55 


SONIA'S  SONG 

To  hear  the  angels  play  their  lutes 

To  hear  them  sing  were  good, 

But  oh!  I'd  choose  to  meet  my  love 

Deep  in  the  beechen  wood, 

With  bluebells,  bluebells  everywhere 

About  us  as  we  stood. 

To  see  the  cherubs  play  at  ball 

In  every  golden  street 

Were  joy  enough  for  Christian  souls, 

Yet  ah !  how  heaven-sweet 

To  walk  the  hills  with  one  I  know, 

The  wild  thyme  at  our  feet. 

To  gaze  on  all  the  holy  saints, 
What  should  one  ask  but  this? 
The  sight  of  them  in  white  array 
Might  be  a  sinner's  bliss. 
But  which  of  them  has  known  the  joy 
Of  my  true  lover's  kiss? 
56 


SONIA'8  SONG 

Have  pity  on  our  human  hearts, 

Dear  God,  and  of  Thy  grace 

Let  me  be  with  my  own  sweet-heart 

In  some  green  sunny  place. 

Oh,  let  me  clasp  his  hand  in  mine 

And  see  his  happy  face. 

Then  shall  I  laugh  for  joy  of  soul 

And  merry  company 

Till  all  the  little  seraphs  hear 

And  clap  their  hands  for  glee. 

Till  the  blessed  saints  and  angels  laugh 

Amid  their  melody. 


THE  WISH 

0  MAN  of  my  heart,  I  have  asked  this  of  God, 
A  little  white  house  that  faces  the  sun 
And  yourself  to  be  coming  in  from  the  fields 
When  the  day's  work  is  done. 

1  have  told  it  to  God,  the  wish  of  my  soul, 
The  little  white  house  at  the  butt  of  the  hill, 
With  a  handful  of  land  and  some  grass  where  the 

goat 
Could  be  eating  her  fill. 

White  walls  and  nasturtiums,  the  yellow  and  red 
Climbing  upwards  to  cling  to  the  straw  of  the 

thatch, 

And  a  speckledy  hen  with  a  dozen  fine  eggs 
That  she's  wishful  to  hatch. 

58 


THE  WISH 

The  two  of  us  there  by  the  side  of  the  hearth 
And  the  dark  lonesome  night  creeping  up  to  the 

door, 
Your  smile  and  your  handclasp,  oh!  man  of  my 

heart — 
I  am  asking  no  more. 


59 


HOME 

(IN  DUBLIN) 

I  GAVE  her  bread  and  bid  her  lead  me  home, 

For  kilt  she  was  with  standing  in  the  cold, 

An'  she,  the  creature,  not  turned  eight  years  old. 

She  went  before  me  on  her  small  bare  feet, 

Clutching  some  papers  not  yet  sold, 

Down  Westland  Row  and  up  Great  Brunswick 

Street. 

Sometimes  she'd  turn  and  peer 
Into  my  face  with  eyes  of  fear. 
She'd  hunch  her  rags  in  hope  to  find  some  heat, 
And  stare  at  shops  where  they  sold  things  to  eat. 
Then  suddenly  she  turned, 
And  where  a  street  lamp  burned 
Led  me  along  a  narrow,  dirty  lane; 
Dim  glass  and  broken  pane 
Stood  for  the  windows.    Every  shadowed  door 
Held  children  of  the  poor. 
That  sheltered  from  the  rain. 

60 


HOME 

Through  one  dark  door  she  slipped  and  bid  me 

come 

For  this  was  home. 
A  narrow  stair  we  had  to  climb 
To  reach  the  topmost  floor. 
A  hundred  years  of  grime 
Clung  to  the  walls,  and  time 
Had  worked  its  will.     Tenants  the  like  o'  these 
The  landlords  don't  be  planning  how  they'll  please. 
A  smell  was  in  it  made  you  hold  your  breath : 
These  dirty  houses  pay  the  tax  to  death 
In  babies'  lives.    But  sure  they  swarm  like  bees, 
Who'd  wonder  at  disease? 
The  room  held  little  but  a  depth  o'  dark ; 
A  woman  stirred  and  spoke  the  young  one's  name. 
The  fire  showed  no  spark, 
But  presently  there  came 
A  slipeen  of  a  girl  who  made  a  flame 
By  burning  paper,  holding  it  torch-fashion, 
Thinking,  maybe,  the  place  would  stir  compassion. 
A  dirty  mattress  and  a  lidless  chest 
That  served  for  cradle;  near  it  stood 
A  table  of  dark  painted  wood ; 
Foreninst  the  grate  a  chair 

61 


HOME 

With  three  legs  good. 

The  place  was  bare 

Of  any  sign  of  food. 

The  light  burnt  out.    The  young  one  found  more 

paper 

And  kindled  it  for  taper, 
This  time  I  saw  above  the  bed 
Our  Lady  in  a  robe  of  blue, 
A  picture  of  our  Saviour's  head, 
Thorn-crowned.     The  light  fell  too 
On  the  child's  frightened  face, 
The  wretched  dirty  place. 
And  so  I  spoke  of  what  the  priests  might  do, 
Of  them  that  help  in  such  a  case. 
They'd  send  the  child  to  some  good  Home, 
And  never  let  her  roam 
About  the  streets,  half-dead 
With  cold  and  hunger. 
They'd  teach  her  and  befriend  her, 
Wash  her  and  mend  her, 
They'd  see  her  clothed  and  fed, 
And  in  a  decent  bed. 
She'd  have  her  brush  and  comb. 
From  every  sort  of  hurt 

62 


HOME 

They  would  defend  her. 

All  this  I  said, 

And  paused  to  let  them  speak. 

The  child  had  caught  her  mother's  skirt 

And  pressed  her  cheek 

Against  her  arm, 

As  if  she  feared  some  harm. 

So,  clasping  her,  the  mother  shook  her  head. 

"You  have  a  right,"  said  she, 

"To  leave  her  here  with  me. 

Heart-broke  in  such  a  place  she'd  be — 

The  creature  loves  her  home." 


63 


THE  WIND'S  CALL 

O  LOVE,  the  wind  would  have  us  for  a  while, 
He  called  aloud  our  names  about  the  eaves, 
Then  passed  like  smoke  across  the  meadow  grass 
And  with  a  breath  made  silver  of  the  leaves. 

He  cried  to  us  to  follow  at  his  heels, 
He  wound  his  horn  where  whitening  willows  grow. 
He  stood  awhile  with  ruffled  wings  to  watch 
The  swayings  loosestrife  and  the  river's  flow. 

Come  out,  beloved,  let  us  follow  him, 
The  dripping  ivy  taps  against  the  pane, 
They  bid  us  to  the  dance  in  field  and  wood, 
They  beckon  us — our  playmates,  wind  and  rain. 

They  whisper  to  us  of  a  hidden  place 

Within  the  windswept  woods,  where  boughs  bend 

low, 

Where  two  may  sit  and  learn  their  secret  lore, 
Where  haunted  hazels  and  where  rowans  grow. 

64 


THE  WIND'S  CALL 

The  wind  is  waiting,  in  your  wistful  eyes 
I  see  the  woods  reflected,  gay  and  wild. 
What  is  a  world  of  bricks  and  men  to  you  ? 
Come  out!     Come  out!     The  woods  have  claimed 
their  child. 


ELAINE  AT  ASTOLAT 

"And  ever  the  beheld  Sir  Launcelot  wonderfully." — MALORY. 

"MY  heart  had  contentment,"  she  said, 

"Till  I  saw  you  pass  by, 

Bewitching  the  bird  from  the  bough 

And  the  stars  from  the  sky. 

My  soul  had  a  sanctuary  once 

But  your  shadow  fell  there, 

And  the  flame   of  the   candles   burnt  dim 

In  the  chill  of  the  air. 

My  thoughts  had  their  freedom,"  she  sighed, 

"Till  you  took  them  in  thrall, 

Now  they  follow  like  birds  where  you  go, 

Rising  up  at  your  call." 

He  heeded  not,  turned  not  his  head 
For  his  heart  was  his  own. 
And  he  passed  with  a  song  on  his  lips 
Where  she  waited  alone. 


THE   PAGE'S   SONG   OF   THE 
HAPPY  LADY 

"The  princess  asked  her  page  to  sing,  and  he,  sitting  in 
the  twilit  window,  sang  this  song  to  his  lute," 

THERE  was  a  lady  broke  her  heart 

In  two — in  two. 

She  hid  the  pieces  out  of  sight 

And  danced  and  sang  the  livelong  night, 

For  nothing  else  remained  to  do. 

"My  joy,"  said  she,  "was  like  a  bird, 

So  soon  it  flew. 

And  now  the  winter  will  be  long 

With  bitter  winds  and  no  bird's  song  .  .  . 

Grey  weary  days !"    Ah !  she  spoke  true. 

She  sought  no  dreary  cypress  shade, 
Nor  yew  .  .  .  nor  yew. 
They  did  not  see  her  eyes  were  wet, 
She  gathered  pinks  and  mignonette, 
But  hidden  near  her  heart  was  rue. 
67 


THE  PAGE'S  SONG  OF  THE  HAPPY  LADY 

The  Happy  Lady  she  was  called, 
So  few,  so  few 

Can  be  so  careless  and  so  gay, 
But  if  she  wept  the  night  away 
None  knew  .  .  .  none  knew. 


FAERIES 

IN  the  smoke- wraiths  blown  by  a  Summer  wind, 

In  the  bubbles  upon  a  stream, 

In  the  scent  of  a  rose  that  was  born  in  June, 

In  the  memory  of  a  dream, 

In  the  joy  that  sings  to  a  minor  key, 

In  the  youth  that  is  young  eternally 

Lie  the  silver  spell  and  the  golden  charm 

Of  the  World  of  Faerie. 

When  the  sense  of  a  life  once  lived  returns, 
When  the  wind  is  full  of  the  Spring, 
When  a  freedom  nothing  can  chain  awakes 
Then  I  know  that  the  faeries  sing ; 
And  they  sing  a  song  that  would  lead  us  forth, 
Ah!  it's  never  to  East  nor  West  nor  North 
But  across  the  evening  and  through  the  dusk 
To  the  land  of  Faerie. 


FAIRIES 

Their  spell  has  a  magic  that  words  would  break, 

But  never  the  song  of  a  bird 

In  the  splash  of  a  stream  that  runs  through  a 

wood 

In  the  soughing  trees  it  is  heard. 
With  a  rustle  amid  the  ferny  brake, 
With  the  faintest  ripple  over  the  lake, 
With  the  sense  of  a  presence  near  at  hand 
Come  the  lords  of  Faerie. 

Men  say  that  the  faeries  are  bravely  clad, 

But  they  come  not  in  mortal  guise. 

No  voice  has  echoed  the  words  they  speak 

For  they  talk  not  in  human  wise. 

In  the  sudden  patter  of  summer  rain, 

In  a  wind  that  awakes  to  die  again, 

In  the  murmur  of  birds  through  summer  dawns 

Is  the  speech  of  Faerie. 


TO 


TO  TIM* 

(AN  IRISH  TERRIER) 

0  JEWEL  of  my  heart,  I  sing  your  praise, 
Though  you  who  are  alas !  of  middle  age 
Have  never  been  to  school  and  cannot  read 
The  weary  printed  page. 

1  sing  your  eyes,  two  pools  in  shadowed  streams 
Where  your  soul  shines  in  depths  of  sunny  brown, 
Alertly  raised  to  read  my  every  mood 

Or  thoughtfully  cast  down. 

I  sing  the  little  nose,  so  glossy  wet, 
The  well-trained  sentry  to  your  eager  mind, 
So  swift  to  catch  the  delicate  glad  scent 
Of  rabbits  on  the  wind. 

Ah!  fair  to  me  your  wheaten  coloured  coat, 
And  fair  the  darker  velvet  of  your  ear, 
Ragged  and  scarred  with  old  hostilities 
That  never  taught  you  fear. 

*  Tim  died  September  7,  1916. 
71 


TO  TIM 

But  oh!  your  heart,  where  my  unworthiness 
Is  made  perfection  by  love's  alchemy, 
How  often  does  your  doghood's  faith  cry  shame 
To  my  inconstancy. 

At  last  I  know  the  hunter  Death  will  come 
And  whistle  low  the  call  you  must  obey. 
So  you  will  leave  me,  comrade  of  my  heart, 
To  take  a  lonely  way. 

Some  tell  me,  Tim,  we  shall  not  meet  again, 
But  for  their  loveless  logic  need  we  care? 
If  I  should  win  to  Heaven's  gate  I  know 
You  will  be  waiting  there. 


A  DOG'S  GRAVE 

HK  sleeps  where  he  would  wish,  in  easy  call, 
Here  in  a  primrose  nook  beside  the  wall. 
And  near  the  gate,  that  he  may  guard  us  all 
Even  in  death,  our  faithful  seneschal. 

I  do  not  think  the  courteous  Cherubim 
Will  chide  him  if  he  waits,  nor  Seraphim 
Summon  him  hence  till  we  may  follow  him 
Who  knew  no  heav'n  without  us — faithful  Tim. 


73 


TO  SCOTT 

(A  COLLIE,  FOR  NINE  YEARS  OUR  FRIEND) 

OLD  friend,  your  place  is  empty  now.    No  more 
Shall  we  obey  the  imperious  deep-mouthed  call 
That  begged  the  instant  freedom  of  our  hall. 
We  shall  not  trace  your  foot-fall  on  the  floor 
Nor  hear  your  urgent  paws  upon  the  door. 
The  loud-thumped  tail  that  welcomed  one  and  all, 
The  volleyed  bark  that  nightly  would  appal 
Our  tim'rous  errand  boys — these  things  are  o'er. 

But  always  yours  shall  be  a  household  name, 
And  other  dogs  must  list*  your  storied  fame; 
So  gallant  and  so  courteous,  Scott,  you  were, 
Mighty  abroad,  at  home  most  debonair. 
Now  God  who  made  you  will  not  count  it  blame 
That  we  commend  your  spirit  to  His  care. 


74 


THE  MONKEY'S  CAROL 

KIND  Christian  souls  who  pass  me  by 

On  business  intent, 
I  pray  you  think  on  such  as  I 
Who  pine  in  banishment. 

I  wear  a  little  coat  of  red, 
A  little  bonnet  on  my  head. 
Kind  gentles,  throw  a  coin  to  me 
And  God  reward  your  charity. 


My  master  grinds  the  music  out 

To  cheer  the  sullen  street; 
The  children  gather  round  about 
And  dance  with  joyous  feet. 

Have  pity  on  the  poor  old  man 
And  give  him  pennies  all  who  can; 
Have  pity  on  his  monkey  too, 
And  God  be  pitiful  to  you. 

n 


THE  MONKEY'S  CAROL 

Once  long  ago  my  heart  was  light 

Amongst  my  brethren  in  the  south, 
Fulfilled  with  joy  I  slept  at  night 
The  taste  of  mangoes  in  my  mouth. 
But  now  I  go  from  door  to  door. 
Have  pity,  gentles,  on  the  poor. 
My  master  is  both  weak  and  old, 
And  I  am  trembling  in  the  cold. 

Your  kitchens  have  a  fragrant  scent 

With  pies  and  puddings  on  each  side, 
I  wish  you  all  much  merriment 

And  peace  and  love  this  Christmastide. 
If  you  have  nuts  or  fruit  for  me 
God  will  reward  your  charity; 
For  if  you  give  the  poor  their  share 
God  will  not  leave  your  platters  bare. 


76 


PENSIONERS 

MY  pensioners  who  daily 
Come  here  to  beg  their  fare, 
For  all  their  need  dress  gaily 
And  have  a  jaunty  air. 
With  "Tira— lira— lira—- 
Now of  your  charity 
Pray  help  the  little  brethren 
Of  noble  poverty." 

One  shines  in  glossy  sable, 
One  wears  a  russet  coat, 
And  one  who  seeks  my  table 
Has  red  about  his  throat. 
With  "Tira— lira— lira— " 
Gay  waistcoat,  speckled  vest, 
Black  cap  and  fine  blue  bonnet, 
They  all  come  bravely  dressed. 
77 


PENSIONERS 

To  them  I  gladly  scatter 
In  this  their  time  of  need, 
Heap  bread  upon  their  platter 
And  ask  not  for  my  meed, 
But  in  the  jocund  spring-time 
Their  songs  give  back  to  me 
A  thousand-fold — my  brethren 
Of  noble  poverty. 


78 


LOOKERS-ON 

MY  dear,  though  you  and  I  should  never  win 
Parts  in  the  mumming  play  of  life  nor  shine 
In  tarletan,  or  tinsel,  mouthing  fine 
Sweet  sentences  beneath  a  limelight  moon — 
What   odds?      The  seats  are  cheap,  we'll  come 

within 

As  lookers-on ;  watch  lover  and  buffoon 
And  clap  for  Columbine  and  Harlequin. 

We'll  laugh  aloud  at  hoary  Pantaloon, 
And  know  our  silly  wanton  hearts  akin 
To  Punchinello's,  fooled  by  love  and  wine. 
The  play  and  players  vanish  all  too  soon, — 
To  envy  them  were  but  a  churlish  sin; 
We  will  not  grudge  them  flute  and  violin, 
We'll  clap  for  Harlequin  and  Columbine. 

To  envy  them  .  .  .  Ah !  yes, — a  churlish  sin ! 


79 


FRIENDS 

MY  friends  have  been  like  daily  bread, 

Essential  yet  unmerited; 

As  kind  as  sunshine  after  rain 

And  firelight  on  the  window  pane: 

As  kind  as  harbour  lights  at  sea 

Or  some  familiar  melody: 

As  good  as  salt  my  friends  to  me. 

I  count  them  over  for  love's  praise, — 
The  rascal  troop  of  childhood's  days, 
The  laughter-loving  friends  of  school 
Who  sighed  beneath  the  selfsame  rule. 
The  lank  of  limb,  the  quick  of  tongue, 
With  waist-encircling  arms  we  clung, — 
So  well  we  loved  when  we  were  young. 

I  found  them  matched  to  every  mood, 
Wise,  frivolous  or  rash  or  good; 
Gay  comrades  of  the  winter  fire 
Or,  answering  summertime's  desire, 
Companions  of  the  sun  and  wind, 
Dear  fellow-travellers,  proven,  kind, 
The  spirit-kin  of  heart  and  mind. 
80 


FRIEND3 

I  bless  them  all,  but  ah !  most  blessed 

Be  those  true  friends  beyond  the  rest 

Who,  silent  but  yet  unafraid, 

Have  watched  and  waited,  loved  and  prayed, 

When,  lone  as  every  soul  must  be, 

The  dreary  shadows  closed  on  me 

In  nether-pits  of  agony. 

•  ••••• 

With  friendship  little  need  I  care 

For  stiffening  limbs  and  whitening  hair, 

For  as  the  tale  of  years  is  told 

My  friends  grow  old — they  too  grow  old. 

But  since  death  makes  worn  things  anew 

Old  bonds  shall  prove  more  tried  and  true, 

I'll  still  love  you  .  .  .  and  you  .  .  .  and  you. 


81 


ANGELIC   SERVICE 

No  angel  is  so  high 

But  serveth  clowns  and  kings 

And  doeth  lowly  things; 

He  in  this  serviceable  love  can  see 

The  symbol  of  some  heavenly  mystery, — • 

So  common  things  grow  wings. 

No  angel  bravely  dressed 

In  larkspur-coloured  gown, 

But  he  will  bend  him  down 

And  sweep  with  careful  art  the  meanest  floor, 

Singing  the  while  he  sweeps  and  toiling  more 

Because  he  wears  a  crown. 

Set  water  on  to  boil, 
An  angel  helps  thee  straight; 
Kneeling  beside  the  grate 
With  pursed  mouth  he  bloweth  up  the  flame, 
Chiding  the  tardy  kettle  that  for  shame 
Would  make  an  angel  wait. 

82 


ANGELIC  SERVICE 

Make  thou  conserves,  the  while 

Two  little  cherubs  stand 

Tip-toe  at  either  hand, 

And  one  would  help  thee  stir,  and  one  would  skim 

The  golden  juice  that  foams  about  the  brim, 

So  serveth  thy  command. 

And  that  same  toil-worn  broom 
So  humble  in  thine  eyes, 
Perchance  has  donned  disguise 
And  is  a  seraph  on  this  errand  bent, 
To  show  thee  service  is  a  sacrament 
And  Love  wears  servant's  guise. 


83 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  LUPINS 

OUR  Lady  loves  the  lily  fair 

Who  stands  so  tall  and  white 
With  head  bowed  down  in  constant  prayer 

To  Christ,  the  King  of  light. 

The  daisies  in  the  meadow  grass 
Right  dear  she  holds  them  all, 

And  smiles  if  she  should  hap'  to  pass 
The  roses  on  the  wall. 

She  loves  the  flowers  in  their  degree 

For  each  one  is  a  gem 
Of  worth  and  beauty  fit  to  be 

In  some  saint's  diadem. 

The  gay  nasturtium  on  her  way 

Lights  up  its  blossom  fires 
By  beauty  only  can  it  say 

The  love  which  she  inspires. 

84 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  LUPINS 

Before  her  feet  the  blossoms  fall 
Because  she  loves  them  well, 

But  on  the  lupins  most  of  all 
Her  eyes  delight  to  dwell. 

Each  spire  is  clothed  in  God's  own  blue, 

And  faith  it  signifies; 
Our  Lady's  robe  is  of  this  hue, 

The  colour  of  the  skies. 

The  lupins'  pride  of  blue  and  green 
Delights  the  Mother  blessed; 

She  stands  among  them  as  their  queen, 
They  reach  unto  her  breast. 


THE  DOCTOR 

THERE'S  a  grassy  place  they  call  the  Grove,  close 

by  St.  John  o'  God's, 
Where  sally  willows  bloom  in  spring,  gold  heads 

on  pale-green  rods. 
The  chestnuts  brust  their  swollen  buds,  a  stream 

goes  splashing  by. 
You'll  see  the  young  leaves  o'  the  year  against  a 

rain-washed  sky. 
And  where  else  would  you  choose  but  be  there  on 

the  sun-warmed  sods? 

'Twas  there  old  Molly  often  went  and  rested  on 

the  grass, 
Begging  a  copper  for  God's  sake  of  all  that  she'd 

see  pass. 
She'd  bless  them  up  to  Heaven's  gate  and  pledge 

her  word  to  pray 
For  their  salvation  if  they'd  spare  a  penny  for 

some  tay. 
Their  hearts  were  softer,  so  she  thought,  as  they 

went  home  from  Mass. 
86 


THE  DOCTOR 

A  poor  old  dirty  woman,  what  way  was  she  at  all? 
Her  skirt  all  torn  to  flitters,  and  rags  itself  her 

shawl : 

A  quare  old  silly  woman,  her  boots  let  in  the  rain, 
And  sorra  stocking  to  her  feet,  you'd  see  her  limp 

with  pain, 
Letting  a  sigh  at  every  step  an'  clutchin'  at  the 

wall. 

Herself  was  in  it  one  fine  day,  when  down  the  path 

there  came 
A  dacint  stranger  dressed  in  black,  she  couldn't 

tell  his  name, 
"God  save  your  honour  this  good  day,  an'  that 

you'll  keep  your  health; 
The  saints  protect  yous,"  Molly  said,  "an*  send 

you  luck  and  wealth." 
"God  save  yourself,  poor  soul,"  says  he,  "an'  may 

jou  have  the  same." 

He  stood  a  minyit  watching  her,  an'  she  began  to 

whine 
The  same  old  tale  she  always  had  for  thim  whose 

clothes  was  fine. 

87 


THE  DOCTOR 

She  hadn't  broken  fast  that  day,  an'  surely  she 

was  bet, 
A  cup  o'  tay  to  warm  her  heart  she  hadn't  tasted 

yet, 
An'  she  so  old — just  closin'  in  on  seventy-eight  or 

nine. 


The  dacint  stranger  looked  at  her,  the  look  of  him 

was  kind; 
Whativer  thing  it  was  God  knows  that  brought 

into  her  mind 
The  Passionists  that  came  to  preach  in  April  was 

a  year, 
The  time  the  big  Retreat  was  held  for  all  the 

people  here, 
Fine  holy  men  that  scared  us  well  to  leave  our  sins 

behind. 


"I  know  you,  Molly,  well,"  says  he,  "a  power  of 

times  we've  met, 
Your  sight  is  not  so  good  itself,  or  maybe  you 

forget 

88 


THE  DOCTOR 

The  times  we've  passed,  but  now  you  beg  and  sorra 

coin  have  I, 
But,  better  still,  I  know  a  cure  you  have  a  right  to 

try, 
Take  courage  now  and  tell  me  all,  I'll  surely  cure 

you  yet." 


She  let  a  laugh  to  hear  him  talk,  "God  help  you, 

dear,"  says  she, 
"  'Twould  take  a  knowledgeable  man  to  cure  the 

likes  o'  me; 
But  I've  heard  of  travelling  doctors  with  bottles 

that  they  sell 
At  seven  an*  fi'pence  each,  no  less,  that's  bound  to 

make  you  well. 
I'm  thinking,  now  your  honour  speaks,  it's  one  of 

thim  you'll  be." 


He  let  a  laugh  himself  that  time:    "Ah!  Molly, 

there's  no  saying, 
A  cure  I  have  for  wake  and  old,  and  niver  talk  of 

paying; 

89 


THE  DOCTOR 

Come,  tell  me  of  the  way  you  are,  the  woeful  pains 

you  feel. 
You're  stiff  to  move,  and  in  the  church  'tis  mortal 

hard  to  kneel, 
And  harder  still  to  rise  yourself  the  time  you've 

done  your  praying?" 


"Aye,  stranger,  that's  the  way  I  am;  they  call  it 

being  old, 
And  kilt  I  am  with  weary  roads,  with  hunger  and 

the  cold. 
But  yet,  God  help  me,  I  was  young  as  any  girl 

you'll  see, 
And  had  the  lads  all  leppin'  up  to  run  and  look 

at  me, 
A  fine  young  figyure  of  a  girl  with  hair  like  shiny 

gold." 


Old  Molly  laughed,  she  rubbed  her  hands,  then 

coughed  and  held  her  side, 
The  poor  old  withered  creature,  you'd  think  she 

would  have  died 

90 


THE  DOCTOR 

Before  she  fetched  her  breath  again  and  found  the 

strength  to  spake; 
"That  God  may  pity  me,"  she  gasped,  "I'm  feeling 

mortal  wake, 
The  cough  it  caught  a  hoult  of  me  to  sarve  me  for 

my  pride. 


"There's  no  lie  in  it,  honey,  nonel    I'm  tellin* 

simple  truth, 
The  lovely  girl  I  was  myself  when  in  the  flow'r  o' 

youth, 
As  careless  as  the  month  o'  May ;  still,  mind  yous, 

tidy-living, 
But  looks  and  smiles  when  girls  are  young  there's 

little  harm  in  giving." 
She  smiled,  the  creature,  as  she  spoke,  an'  showed 

one  broken  tooth. 


"The  money,  stranger,  flew  those  times ;  I've  spent 

nigh  twenty  shilling 
To  buy  a  pair  of  laced-up  boots,  my  father  he  was 

willing, 

91 


THE  DOCTOR 

An'  a  lovely  feathered  hat  I  wore  the  times  we 

drove  to  Mass, 
The  lot  of  us  packed  warm  and  close  behind  the 

little  ass, 
But  ruinated,  faith !  it  was  one  day  when  rain  was 

spilling. 


"And  then  I  married  with  himself,  and  things  were 

hard  enough, 
When  he'd  drink  taken,  nothing  plazed,  and  often 

he'd  be  rough — 
That  God  may  pity  him,  poor  soul — we  had  our 

share  of  throuble. 
The  notions  jn  a  young  girl's  mind  are  like  a  shiny 

bubble 
That  will  burst  the  day  she  marries,  for  life  is 

different  stuff. 


"The  childer  came  too  fast  those  times,  but  there 

— God's  will  is  best, 
He  sends  the  child,  and  though  you're  poor,  you've 

got  to  do  the  rest. 


THE  DOCTOR 

I  never  could  sit  under  them,  and  most  had  bandy 

legs, 
The  like  of  us  can't  rare  a  child  on  butcher's  meat 

and  eggs; 
'Twas  lack  of  nourishment  made  Pat  so  wakely  in 

his  chest. 


"He  died  on  us  in  Loughlinstown,  there  in  a  Union 

bed, 
And  hard  it  was  to  bury  him,  for  we  were  wanting 

bread, 
My  grief !  the  next  to  go  was  Liz,  she  died  the  end 

of  May, 
I  let  the  sorrow  in  on  me  when  she  had  gone 

away. 
It  seemed  my  heart  was  frozen  stone,  I  had  no 

tears  to  shed. 


"The  Boers  they  killed  poor  Terry,  that  joined 

the  Fusiliers; 
I  saw  the  other  boys  come  back,  and  heard  the 

people's  cheers. 

93 


THE  DOCTOR 

And  Mary's  in  America,  but  God  knows  where 

she'll  be, 
A  Christianable  daughter  would  take  more  heed 

for  me; 
But  not  a  word  she's  thought  to  write  this  weary 

length  o'  years. 


"My  comrade  he  was  taken,  too,  the  drink  had  him 

destroyed ; 
He  died  on  me  one  Christmas  time,  and  wasn't  I 

annoyed 
To  have  no  bands  of  crape  to  wear  as  token  of 

respect, 
An'  but  one  coach  to  follow  was  the  cruel  hard 

neglect, 
For  a  dacint  funeral  was  a  thing  himself  would 

have  enjoyed. 


"Not  one  of  thim  is  in  it  now,  and  here  am  I 

alone, 
With  sorra  one  to  welcome  me,  or  place  to  call  my 

own. 

94 


THE  DOCTOR 

The  weary  world  it  is  to  me,  for  God  has  sent  me 
sorrow, 

I'm  badly  situated  now,  with  nothing  for  to- 
morrow— 

An*  if  I  can't  pay  fi'pence  down,  my  bed  may  be  a 
stone." 


Old  Molly  lost  her  breath  and  coughed  as  tho'  her 

heart  was  breakin', 
Maybe  the  stranger  pitied  her,  so  thin  she  was  and 

shakin', 
A  poor  old  bag  of  bones  itself  inside  her  ragged 

shawl. 
He  caught  her  hand,  she  clutched  at  him,  for  she 

was  like  to  fall, 
Her  heart  was  thumping  at  her  side,  an'  all  her 

limbs  were  achin'. 


Through  passing  clouds  the  sun  shone  out  and 

sparkled  on  the  sod 
A  little  shining  spear  of  green  was  every  willow 

rod, 

95 


THE  DOCTOR 

The  stranger  looked  in  Molly's  eyes,  she  struggled 
for  her  breath. 

She  knew  his  name,  poor  creature,  now — the  doc- 
tor's name  was  Death. 

"O  Christ,"  she  moaned,  "receive  my  soul.  Have 
pity  on  me,  God." 


Sparrows  were  chirping,  blackbirds  sang,  their 

comrades'  hearts  to  please, 
And  sorra  heed  they  took  of  her  that  lay  below  the 

trees. 
Splash  of  the  stream  the  silence  stirred  or  beat  of 

pigeon's  wing 
A    squirrel   peeped    above   a   bough   to    see    the 

crumpled  thing 
Upon  the  grass,  with  crusts  of  bread  still  lying  on 

her  knees. 


A  robin  bolder  than  the  rest  hopped  down  upon 

her  shawl 
And    picked    the   bread    she    couldn't    use,    then 

perched  upon   the   wall, 
96 


THE  DOCTOR 

Singing  his  grace  and  watching  her  that  was  so 

quare  an'  still, 
He  thought  he  had  a  right,  maybe,  to  go  an'  take 

his  fill; 
He  lit  down  on  her  poor  old  boot,  she  never  moved 

at  all. 


A  man,  was  after  selling  ferns,  came  through  the 

place  at  last, 
His  wife  that  had  the  basket  she  couldn't  walk  so 

fast, 
But  streeled  behind,  her  ragged  skirt  flapping  at 

either  heel; 
She  chewed,  the  creature,  as  she  went  a  bit  of 

orange  peel, 
An'  wondered  what  old  heap  of  rags  upon  the 

ground  was  cast. 


'Twas  Molly  that  was  lying  there,  and  sure  himself 

knew  well; 
He  took  the  pipe  out  from  his  mouth,  then  turned 

and  let  a  yell: 

97 


THE  DOCTOR 

"  'Tis  poor  old  Molly  Quin,"  says  he,  "d'ye  see  the 

way  she's  lying? 
An'  stiff  and  cold  she  is  itself,  the  creature's  after 

dying. 
Let  yous  stay  here  a  minyit  now,  I'll  seek  for  one 

to  tell." 


The  woman  put  her  basket  down,  and  crossed  her- 
self and  cried: 

"May  God  have  mercy  on  her  soul,  'twas  all  alone 
she  died 

Like  some  old  crow  beside  the  road,  now  that's  the 
woeful  sight. 

The  polis  should  be  warned  of  this,  maybe  you 
have  a  right 

To  go  find  one  of  thim  beyant,  I'll  stay  here  at  her 
side." 


He  looked  at  Molly  huddled  there,  the  crusts  upon 

her  knee. 
"  'Tis  sure  enough  ourselves  will  die  the  self-same 

way,"  says  he: 

98 


THE  DOCTOR 

"Just  thravel  till  we  drop  down  dead  and  lie  in  any 

ditch — 
A  dacint  death  and  burying  are  meant  for  thim 

that's  rich. 
Let  you  stay  here  now  till  I  bring  the  polls  back 

with  me." 


Close  by  the  wall  there  runs  a  path  through  tangle 
of  great  weeds, 

And  one  cuts  straight  across  the  grass  and  to  the 
village  leads. 

The  woman  watched  her  comrade  go,  then  stared 
up  at  the  sky 

For  fear  would  Molly  peep  at  her  from  out  a  half- 
closed  eye. 

She  fumbled  in  her  ragged  skirt  until  she  found 
her  beads, 


Then  started  muttering  aloud,  her  lips  moved  fast 

in  prayer. 
A  little  wind  that  stirred  the  grass  went  ruffling 

through  her  hair; 

99 


THE  DOCTOR 

It  blew  the  rags  of  Molly's  shawl  against  her  pale, 

dead  face, 
And  all  the  while  it  told  the  birds  that  Spring  was 

in  the  place. 
What  heed,  the  creatures,  did  they  take  that  death 

itself  was  there? 

The  woman  prayed,  but  watched  a  wren  upon  an 

ivy  wreath, 
A  nest  was  hidden  somewhere  safe  in  the  old  wall 

beneath. 
The  comrade  bird  upon  a  branch  his  small  sweet 

song  was  singing, 
Then  on  a  sudden  from  St.  John's  the  Angelus  was 

4 

ringing : 

A  passing  bell  it  was  for  one  cured  by  the  doctor, 
Death. 


SAILS 

WHERE  Taw  flows  out  from  Barurn  Town, 

Where  Taw  flows  out  to  sea, 

The  bonny  boats  sail  up  and  down 

Upon  the  Estuary; 

They  carry — Heaven  knows  what  store — 

Past  Instow  and  past  Appledore, 

With  sunburnt  jolly  men  aboard 

From  Westward  Ho   and   Bideford. 


Where  Taw  flows  out  from  Barum  Town, 
The  full  tide  brings  the  sails 
Of  orange  hue  or  tawny  brown 
That  weather  many  gales; 
And  some  are  white  as  wind-blown  foam 
And  others  red  as  Devon  loam, 
With  goodly  bales  they  come  and  go 
To  Bideford  and  Westward  Ho. 
101 


8AIL8 

Where  Taw  flows  out  from  Barum  Town 

I  dearly  long  to  be, 

With  sails  of  tangerine  and  brown 

To  sail  with  you  to  sea. 

Who'd  care  at  all  if  we  were  poor 

At  Instow  or  at  Appledore. 

We'd  sail — so  be  We  could  afford— 

To  Westward  Ho  and  Bideford. 


109 


THE  REBEL 

0  GOD,  when  I  kneel  down  to  pray 
Heed  only  then  the  words  I  say 
And  do  not  listen  to  my  heart 
Which  mutters  to  itself  apart. 

1  say,  "God  bless  my  enemies." 

Then  take  my  word   and  bless  them,  please; 
Be  deaf  to  that  fierce  self  which  still 
Murmurs,  "But  ah!  I  wish  them  ill!" 

I  say,  "Dear  God,  Thy  will  is  best," 
But  loud  and  angry  in  my  breast 
This  untamed  heart  is  crying,  "Nay, 
"Not  Thine,  but  mine;  I  want  my  way." 
Two  selves  that  struggle — one  loves  sin, 
And  one  loves  God.     Say,  which  shall  win? 
Be  deaf,  Lord,  to  the  evil  voice 
And  give  my  rebel  heart  no  choice. 

103 


AEROPLANES  AND 
DRAGONFLIES 

A  SHIMMER,  a  glimmer  beside  the  stream; 
Blue  flame,  green  flame,  jewels  of  a  dream; 
Emeralds  that  quiver  above  the  water  weeds ; 
Sapphires  that  shiver  among  the  spear-like  reeds. 
Gems  that  have  wings,  that  chase  and  float  and 

rise; 
Gems  of  June's  casket — idragonflies. 

Over  sky-fields,  down  streams  of  windy  space 
Hover  great  aeroplanes  that  swoop  and  chase. 
Surely  the  war  gods  shout  to  hear  them  hum — 
"Brother!  Young  gods  with  thunderbolts  are 

come. 

Greater  than  we,  yet  wearing  man's  disguise, 
Sons  of  Thor's  breed  who  ride  on  dragonflies." 

104 


THE  TRYST 

"UNTIL  we  meet  again" — ah,  happy  meeting! 
But,  weary  with  the  town,  I  crave  God's  pity 
And  ask  cool  meadows  for  that  promised  greeting, 
Far  from  the  jewelled  gates,  the  shining  city; 

Wide  meadows  where  the  buttercups  are  golden, 
No  jewels  there  but  eyebright  and  red  clover, 
A  stream  that  creeps  by  willows  grey  and  olden, 
Waters  with  weeds  and  flowers  'broidered  over. 

Great  dragon  flies  that  flit  and  gleam  and  quiver, 
Bees  that  make  silence  music  by  their  humming; 
— So  still  a  place  I'd  ask  of  God  the  giver, 
Where  I  might  wait  the  moment  of  your  coming; 

Far  from  the  thronging  saints,  the  seraph  quire 
I'd  see  the  dawning  of  my  heart's  desire. 

THE  EKD 


105 


POEMS  BY 

EVELYN  UNDERHILL 

The  Historian  and  Poet  of  Mysticism 

Author  of 
Mysticism,  The  Mystic  Way,  etc. 

Immanence :  A  Book  of  verses 

Net  $1.25 

Theophanies :  A  Book  of  verse 

Net  $1.50 

Mysticism  is  a  term  which  has  long 
been  current  to  cover  a  multitude  of  dif- 
ferent matters,  from  the  highest  spiritual 
perception  down  to  the  lowest  charlatanry. 
Miss  Underbill  by  her  writings  has  done 
more  than  any  living  English  writer  to  re- 
deem the  word  and  give  it  its  true  signifi- 
cance. 

These  books  of  pure  and  exquisite  verse 
are  mystical  in  the  finest  sense,  and  pro- 
claim the  author's  relationship  to  the  great 
mystics  of  old  time. 

There  is  solace  and  refreshment  in  these 
poems  for  the  soul  that  is  striving  to  com- 
pass the  invisible  realities. 

E.  P.  DUTTON  AND  COMPANY 
68 1  FIFTH  AVENUE         NEW  YORK  CITY 


Ttoo  "Bocks  °f  "Poetry  for  Mothers 

Feelings  and  Things 

BY 

EDNA  KINGSLEY  WALLACE 
Net  $1.00 

A  book  of  delightfully  humorous  and  delicate 
verse  interpretive  of  the  mind  and  feelings  of 
a  child. 

Under  the  titles  "Happy  Ones,"  "Wistful 
Ones,"  "Solemn  Ones,"  and  so  forth,  Miss 
Wallace  has  caught  the  yearnings  and  wonder- 
ings  that  a  child  feels,  and  which  every  mother 
will  recognize  with  a  wave  of  recollection. 
The  poems  are  also  singularly  well  suited  for 
reading  aloud  or  for  recitation  by  the  young 
people. 

Songs  of  a  Mother 

BY 

MARIETTA  MOTNEGERODE  ANDREWS 
Illustrated  in  black  and  white  by  the  Author 

Net  $1.00 

The  deepest  feelings  which  the  realization  of 
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known  not  only  as  a  writer  and  teacher  but  as 
a  strenuous  worker  in  the  cause  of  Woman. 


E.  P.  BUTTON  AND  COMPANY 
.  681  FIFTH  AVENUE  NEW  YORK  CITY 

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